


philia.

by izzyharel



Series: a compendium of what j.k rowling never said. [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Canon Compliant, F/M, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Self-Reflection, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:55:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29713356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzyharel/pseuds/izzyharel
Summary: “Why do you hang out only with them?” Ginny had asked one day. To which, Hermione had no fathomable answer. She wasn’t eleven and a know-it-all anymore. Admittedly, she did still know all. But she was perfectly capable of finding new friends. She had just never thought of it.・ philia: the love of equals who are united in a common purpose, pursuit, good, or end; the love of friendship.
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Series: a compendium of what j.k rowling never said. [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2141601
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	philia.

When Hermione Granger entered her fourth year at Hogwarts, she had no idea Viktor Krum would ask her to the ball. What she did know, however, was Ginny Weasley’s guiding hand on her shoulder after the quidditch world cup when the chaos had finally dissipated and life was back to somewhat normal. What she did know was the way Ginny’s face turned sour and almost displeased as she placed a hand on Hermione’s arm and asked why Hermione only spent her time with two boys. Didn’t she want to spend her time with other girls?

It wasn’t until years later that Hermione had her answer to that question. In the rubble of Hogwarts after the final battle, she finally had her answer. Harry had left, no doubt to sleep. And no matter the new precarious thing between the two of them, Ron did not want her around. Hermione understood that. She could fathom the depths of his grief when it came to Fred’s death. She shared it, even if the Weasleys couldn’t quite believe that she did. Why would they? She had only known Fred for seven years. The bonds of friendship formed through school were nothing compared to the bonds of family. And yet, she shared all the pain as she traversed the hall. It wasn’t as if Ron didn’t want her around. The logical part of her brain understood that. 

And yet, she had spent her entire life fixated on logic. It wasn’t wrong to take a moment to finally allow herself to be illogical and to be a grieving girl, caught in the ashes and embers of a war that had been over so quickly but had left wounds that would never truly heal. There were wounds deeper than her own scars. Even the hallowed halls of Hogwarts were changed irrevocably. No matter how many times they could be scrubbed or cleaned, they were just as marred and damaged as her own arm.

Logically, Hermione should have just processed that and moved on. She should have sat down and tried to force her mind to stop thinking of flashes of green light and screams, to put her thoughts together piecemeal and find something to occupy her time. People needed help. And yet, logic did not come easily to Hermione as she walked the halls.

The pursuit of logic was the only thing that kept Hermione grounded. It was the only reminder of the eleven-year-old girl she had been, gangly and gawky with her bushy hair and buck-teeth. She had been a girl who grew up with her nose inside a book. Hermione Granger had been the child in the corner of the playground, reading about fantasy worlds until the real-life world around her faded away. And then came her letter and with that, a gateway to those fantasy worlds she created in her head to serve as a wall between herself and the ceaseless bullying of other children. No longer was she a girl who was bullied for being too strange. She was a witch, going on adventures and saving those she cared about. She was finding her true love!

Eleven-year-old Hermione had been euphoric to see her letter. She had thought her dreams were coming true. Her fantasies were going to finally come true! She was special, she was finally going to be something more than the bushy-haired freak whose parents gave out floss and toothpaste on Halloween instead of actual candy. It had all clicked into place. All the strange moments that she had convinced herself weren’t real, all of the incidents that she had thought were merely childlike pranks pulled to make her feel insane. They had been real and they had been her doing.

She had likened it to a heroes journey. Before even going to Diagon Alley, Hermione had poured through her pile of library books to research witches, wizards, and what they could do. She had decided that most of them were heroes in their own right. She then decided that she was going to be like Merlin. She was going to be so magical and wise that she could make a difference in the world. She was going to be brave, bold, and beyond all else, she was going to be liked. Overzealous was an understatement when it came to Hermione’s joy over Hogwarts and the fact that she was going to spend time becoming a witch. To her, it seemed the best of all things.

She could be more than the daughter of two dentists. Hermione knew that brains took you far in life. But she also knew that there were things more important. She had once told Harry that, when on her first-ever adventure. She hadn’t felt like a hero in that moment. She had felt slightly and short. It had all been so sudden. 

Heroes all went through something bad. In all her stories, people died and the heroes grew stronger for it. They took that pain and weaponized it. In all her books of history, people died and the victors moved forward. Perhaps she hadn't understood that then, as a little girl with too large robes and a stack of books piled up above her head running through Diagon Alley, laughing mirthfully; as if she could feel the magic coursing through her body while she ran through the cobbled streets.

The cobbled streets and laughter of her youth had turned to the rubble of Hogwart’s Great Hall and the silent sniffles of a girl who had been forced to grow up too fast. There had been a glow to the wizarding world, even when she was bullied and berated. A magical golden glow of joy and radiance that welcomed her into it, as if to say that she belonged. 

There was no glow now. There were only dead bodies. Bodies of people she could have saved. Kicking away soot and dust, shoes covered in both dust and blood alike, Hermione walked in a daze toward nowhere in particular. Even if she had a destination in mind, it wouldn’t have mattered. Everything looked the same through the lens of decay and despondency. She sat down at a random table; once the Ravenclaw table but now just a bench. House loyalties mattered little. The only thing that mattered was that they survived. 

Heroes watched everyone die. Hermione, at the age of 11, had thought herself a hero. She had thought that Harry, Ron, and all the other bullies were villains who she would someday triumph over. She had pushed herself to study harder, to prove everyone wrong and show that being smart was not something to be laughed at. There was a power in wisdom. 

But there was the difference between Hermione and a typical Ravenclaw. She didn’t care about the knowledge she gathered or hoarding that knowledge. Hermione wanted to weaponize her logic and knowledge. It took a special kind of bravery to stand up to standards. It took a special kind of bravery to weaponize words. How many could do that? How many children were like her? Full of wisdom and a desire to change the world but afraid to do so because of the constant belittling and bullying of their peers?

Hermione had fought for them. Every spell and every death had been for that future so that someone else could be a hero when she wasn’t one. She had also fought for the ginger-haired boy beside her, who had walked away so many times but always found his way back to her. Who she had realised she was in love with long before she even knew what love was. She had fought for Harry, who had allowed her to be his friend when the rest of the school would have died to be in her shoes. Who she related to, who she sat beside and listened to when nobody else would.

Hermione had never thought to befriend anyone else outside Harry and Ron. She enjoyed the Weasleys and the other girls in her grade. She was kind to them in passing but in truth, she had liked feeling special. She had liked finally weaponizing her knowledge and feeling useful for something outside giving answers to homework and receiving house points. She had liked doing something.

Harry and Ron had given a way for her to do something. While most of her peers saw her only as the smart girl who aided Harry, Harry and Ron saw her for what she was. All eleven-year-olds had this strange sense of comradery that was shaped by the in-between of being still too young to be considered mature but too old to be coddled. They all had a fierce desire to prevail and to become adults. All children had that. It was just even more apparent in eleven-year-olds. Especially those who were at a boarding school far away from their parents and caregivers for the first time.

It had been different with Harry and Ron. There was, of course, no way to not befriend someone after battling a giant troll with them. But it was more than that. They had all grown up with the same fantasy of being different. Harry had dreamed of an escape, Hermione had dreamed of a world where she could be accepted, and Ron had dreamed of being more than the youngest son in a family that really could not afford to focus on a young son where there were mouths to feed and a shortage of money. 

It had been unspoken, as so many things are when they are glaringly obvious but hard to describe and talk about, that they were a trio that needed each other. Harry found his escape in Hermione and Ron. In Ron’s stories of the world and Hermione’s constant surplus of knowledge, he had an escape first from the Dursleys and in later years, an escape from his fight with Voldemort. Hermione had been accepted by her friends. Albeit, after a lot of teasing and struggle. And Ron had become more. He had become the friend of the boy who lived and then eventually, a wizard of his own mettle and merit. 

Maybe that was why she had no intention of finding other friends, Hermione idly thought. Besides, she was glad for the divide between herself and her classmates if only because it meant that her grief wasn't so pronounced. That was selfish and she knew that, but her heart couldn't take another heartbreak. There was already too much that she had lost. Perched as she was atop the Ravenclaw table, Hermione could see the Great Hall for what it was. A ruined mess of bodies. The usual aroma of food and the noises of students laughing had been replaced by the pungent smell of rot and the only sounds heard were the wails of those left behind.

There was little to fear from death. What was truly frightening was to be left behind. Casting another forlorn gaze at the mourning Weasleys and then at the too-small body of Colin Creevy, Hermione ran dust-stained fingers through her hair. Fingers catching on her curls, the girl let out a faint noise of dismay. 

It came crashing over her like a tide. One second, there was nothing there. The next, the simple movement of finding her finger caught in her hair was enough to make Hermione Granger sob. She had tried not to focus on it, in the heat of the battle and the aftermath. But now that she was left alone, her shoulders shook and her chest heaved. It was over and she was over. She had no idea who she was. She had read and prepared and done everything her entire life to get to a final moment; to use that knowledge. And she had. The war was over and she? She was tired. So very tired.

Part of the reason she had never wanted other friends was that she knew stories. She knew how they worked. She hadn’t spent her entire life reading and dreaming of fantasy worlds not to know how these things worked. Heroes were doomed from the start to feel loss and pain. And Harry was a hero. Those around him would get hurt. If she was going to get hurt or die, she rather do it without people mourning her. All she needed was Harry and Ron. The more she learned of the world, the more Hermione understood that the people around him would get hurt whenever Voldemort struck. 

Or they would judge Harry, which was something she couldn’t deal with. Like all lonely children, she clung to the few secure attachments she could form. For Hermione, Ron and Harry were the people who had stood with her through it all. They were all that mattered, for they were all that would remain once they moved on becoming adults. She knew that. 

Even so, Hermione got attached quickly to the others at Hogwarts. She was an awkward and gangly girl, which was one of the main reasons she clung to Harry and Ron. They were oblivious to the perils of puberty and only realised later that everyone was growing up around them. And then she had bloomed into adolescence and everything had changed.

Where she had been reclusive and afraid before, confined to books and reading, she now was suddenly welcomed into the world with open arms. It was funny how people could smile and call you intelligent and then go about their day, expecting it to be taken as a compliment and just never comment on what you looked like or anything outside that one defining trait. And then, she had grown up and suddenly, her intelligence wasn’t a defining factor.

She went from the awkward nerd to the girl who knew everything. The change might not have meant much, but it meant that she was respected in a way Hermione didn’t understand. 

She still didn’t, even as she sat alone and watched the castle weep. Outside, the world also mourned. There was a side to victory books never told you. It wasn’t a happily ever after. It was a new start. It was like one book had been closed and another was open, ready to be read and dived into. It wasn’t a new chapter; not really. It was an entirely new experience and series in her life. In everyone’s lives. 

Ginny Weasley had once asked Hermione Granger why she chose to stick with Harry and Ron. As the sun rose on a mourning Hogwarts and Ron looked up, eyes red and face blotchy, Hermione realised she knew exactly why. Her sobs quieted. There would be more time to cry later. Months and years for tears. They were alive and had the luxury of tears, of time to mourn and move forward. As she slipped through the crowd and past the reminders of all they had lost to take his hand in her own and to silently place her other free hand on Ginny’s shoulder, she accepted a fundamental truth that should have been made clear long ago. 

She had never wanted anything more. She had wanted to be a hero and had wanted to be loved. Some people wanted a legacy and to be beloved by all. Hermione had never wanted that. The spotlight was not one she craved. With Ron’s hand in her own and the horror of a future without Fred, Lupin, Tonks, and all the others they had lost, Hermione realised that the future would have been far bleaker if she had made other choices. 

Maybe it would have been prudent to talk to other people. But she had no need for a legacy and for a wide circle of friends. She had been an outcast in need of other outcasts. She had found that in Ron and Harry and would not let go of it. Most might have found it foolish to only have two friends, but she was not foolish. She was the brightest witch of her age and every memory was all the more precious because it was just the three of them. 

She had once thought the wizarding world had a golden glow to it, as if it celebrated the magic in the very air. She had thought that glow vanished during the war. But, as Hermione looked at Ron, she processed the fact that it never had. The golden gleam of her new home had simply transferred to her friends. Harry and Ron shone with that same gold. They were a golden trio, a home more important than the world that had given her magic. 

Even as the world fell apart and burned at their feet, destroyed by war and by a man who would never understand what it meant to love, she held onto Ron’s hand. They would rebuild that world up from the ashes and deal with whatever came next, just as they always had. 

Her, Ron, and Harry. 

And maybe others would come and go in their lives. They always had. But in the end, it would always be the three of them. And Hermione knew that, somehow, at the age of eleven. Just as how she had known that at fourteen and seventeen. 

Just as she knew it now.


End file.
